


Dragon's Ink

by Leela



Series: Dragon's Ink [1]
Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: HP: EWE, M/M, Magical Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-08
Updated: 2010-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-08 19:22:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leela/pseuds/Leela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One evening, just before closing, a hooded and cloaked man enters Charlie's studio. Draco Malfoy wants a tattoo. The only problem is that he already has one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dragon's Ink

**Author's Note:**

> **Betas**: Perverse Idyll, Minxie, and Flic.   
> **Thanks**: To the slash!chat ladies for handholding, brainstorming, and generally kicking me to keep writing until I got to the end.  
> **A/N**: Okay, so stories for the National Charlie Month Fest at flames_n_tats (on LJ) were supposed to be posted in April 2009. This story, however, kept growing long past my ability to finish it in time. So, I gave myself an extension and decided that a belated story was better than none at all, and eventually posted it in May 2009.
> 
> This is for prompt #25: "Show me a man with a tattoo and I'll show you a man with an interesting past." — Jack London

Unexpectedly nervous, Charlie stood in the middle of his new studio with his arms crossed over his chest. Everything was ready, waiting for him to take the one last step. One flick of his wand and...

Charlie swallowed hard. The painful lump in his throat was as unexpected as the prickling in his eyes and the fluttering in his belly. He didn't doubt that he'd made the right decision — his family needed him here in England — but that didn't make this any easier.

He grasped the dragon's tooth that hung from the leather cord around his neck. For luck. Then, with a snarl, he flung out his arm.

A burst of pale orange light flew from his wand and spun across the front window. The charm carved an arc of words into the glass, each letter glittering in a riotous rainbow of colours drawn from his palette of tattoo inks. The dragons that decorated the window gained a facsimile of life, stretching their wings and blowing smoke and flames. A quick snap of his wrist and the wooden sign clacked against the glass in the door, as it flipped over.

Dragon's Ink, at the corner of Diagon Alley and Victory Lane was open for business. And Charlie was no longer a dragon keeper.

o0O0o

"You all right?" George came up behind Charlie, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"I will be," Charlie said, dredging up a smile from somewhere. Not an unbelievable smile either, if the look of relief on George's face was anything to go by.

They stood there for a while, watching the sun go down and the garden lights come on. Gnomes cavorted around the field on the other side of the fence, muttering and murmuring to each other. Occasionally a gnome would throw itself at the shield Bill and Harry had erected the day that their Mum had practically had a nervous breakdown watching the creatures destroy her rosebushes. But the shield held, as it always did, sending the gnome flying back into the field in a flurry of red sparks.

Eventually, George stirred. "The shop, it's doing all right, then?"

"Yeah, it's fine. Better than fine, really. It's only been a couple of months, and I'm already making enough from the studio to pay the overhead and have a bit left over at the end of the week."

"Good."

"George?"

"Yeah?"

"It's okay, you know," Charlie said, trying to project reassurance. "You don't have to feel guilty or responsible for bringing me back here."

A shuffle of feet and then George made an indeterminate noise that had Charlie turning towards him. George was starting to look like himself again. No longer wearing only black and grey, he'd added back in some of the hideous colour combinations that made Albus Dumbledore seem like a conservative dresser. The circles and bags under his eyes were slowly disappearing. Although Charlie was sure some of the stress lines would be there for the rest of his life — as would the nervous tics and twitches, which were all that remained of a lifetime of habitual touching between the twins.

"But you left your dragons." George stared down at his feet.

"Hey," Charlie murmured. "None of that. I'm old enough and daft enough to make my own decisions."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

George's breathing hitched, and he swallowed hard. Then, he reached out and placed his hand on Charlie's shoulder.

Charlie covered George's hand with one of his own. For the first time since he'd packed in the dragons and come home, he knew he'd made the right decision.

o0O0o

Stretching cramped muscles, Charlie groaned as his neck and shoulders cracked. A day spent hunched over, using his magic to ink designs into skin, had left him tired and aching, but there was still work to be done. In the six months since he'd opened his tattoo studio, he'd grown to appreciate the feeling and the work it represented.

Raising the volume, Charlie flicked the music from the echoing chants and drums that accompanied him through the day to a random song from his collection of Wizarding and Muggle recordings. Tonight, the spell chose Led Zeppelin.

Just as the opening bars of Kashmir filled the studio, the door opened.

"I'm about to close up for the night," Charlie said, moving behind the dubious protection of the counter and tightening his grip on his wand.

The man who entered the studio was wrapped in a dark green, hooded cloak. He was almost as tall as Charlie but slimmer, although it was hard to tell through the bulky fabric. Ignoring Charlie, he walked over to the photographs of tattoos that decorated one wall. His head tipped up slightly as his gloved hand reached up and caressed a frame.

The delicate touch sent a shiver across Charlie's back and stirred his dragon tattoos. "That's one of a kind," he said, "although I'd be happy to help you find another tattoo that suits you. When I re-open."

The man turned around, his hood sliding back to expose white-blond hair that spilled down past his shoulders.

"Draco Malfoy." Charlie crossed his arms over his chest, cocked his hip, and settled his weight on one foot, making sure that his wand was visible.

Malfoy licked his lips and an unidentifiable emotion flashed through his grey eyes. "I need a tattoo."

_Need_. Charlie knew how that felt, but it was closing time and he was tired. "Come back tomorrow morning at 11 o'clock, and we can talk."

"I can't—"

"Tomorrow."

"Now." The plea was whispered. "I've done the research. I know what I'm getting myself into."

Tilting his head, Charlie studied the man in front of him. His skin was unlined and yet, like Harry and Ron and so many others their age, Malfoy looked older than he actually was. His cloak was fastened from collar to hem and held tightly around him with one hand, as if for protection. His other hand gripped the fabric near a pocket. Probably where his wand was stowed.

"I can't," Charlie finally responded, surprised at his own regret.

"Can't or won't. Never mind." Malfoy shook his head, a sharp movement that sent some of his hair flying, and raised his hand palm forward in a warding gesture. "I know how this goes. I'll leave."

"Can't, not won't," Charlie said calmly "Not tonight, anyway."

A blond eyebrow lifted in inquiry, Malfoy dropped his hand and released his cloak to fall in folds around his feet.

"There's a limit to how many tattoos I can safely do in a day, and I've already reached my limit," Charlie admitted, allowing his stance to relax. "I was just about to clean up and go home."

"Tomorrow then. 11 o'clock. And don't have any other clients." Malfoy replaced his hood and gathered his cloak around him again.

Bemused, Charlie grasped his dragon's tooth pendant as he watched Malfoy sweep out the door. He wasn't even sure why he'd said he'd be open the next day. The studio was always closed on Mondays and Tuesdays.

o0O0o

"Pass the potatoes, will you?" Ron called from the other end of the table. "Some of us like to eat them while they're still hot."

"Never heard of warming charms?" Ginny responded, even as she levitated the bowl down to him.

"Not the same, is it?" George made a face. "Always dries them out."

"You can always add more butter," Percy offered. His tentativeness was new, as was his effort to involve himself in the discussions at the Sunday dinner table.

At least he's here, Charlie thought, and flashed him an encouraging smile. The chatter rose on all sides. Good-natured ribbing, conversations about the food, about kids and work and school.

Putting his fork down for a minute, he leant back in his chair and just soaked in the welcoming warmth of his family. He loved these Sunday get-togethers. Everyone came to the Burrow. Most of the time, the table had to be extended to accommodate spouses and partners and friends and kids.

That night was a bit less crowded than usual. No-one had brought friends, and the only partners present were Hermione and Harry. Hermione and Percy were practically joined at the hip these days, always holding hands; sometimes with their noses buried in the same book. Harry, though, that had been a surprise. The ink had barely dried on Fleur's owl message, announcing that she was staying in France, than Harry had moved in with Bill. Now that Ginny had finally stopped teasing Harry over trading her in for one of her brothers, the only question that still remained was whether Fleur's boredom with the marriage would extend to their daughter. George had a pool going; Charlie had a couple of galleons on Fleur sending Victoire back across the Channel in the next two weeks.

Even with all the distractions, Charlie couldn't stop glancing at his mum and dad.

Dad participated in discussions here and there, smiling and laughing in all the right places, but his whole attention was on their mum. This Sunday was one of her bad days. She sat in her chair, picking at the food Dad had put on her plate, the food Harry and Bill had cooked. They all took turns, ready to either help her in the kitchen or take over if she couldn't manage.

She was too thin, almost insubstantial. Charlie couldn't ever remember her being anything but plump and bustling with energy, not even in the depths of either war. Everyone assured him that she was better now that he was home. No longer fretting about him, about what could happen to him, about losing him when he was so far away and there was nothing she could do. But Charlie couldn't help worrying about her.

"You were late tonight," Harry said, drawing Charlie's attention back to the conversation at hand. "We missed you in the kitchen."

Charlie winced. He'd forgotten that he was on kitchen duty that day. "Had a new client come in just before closing," he explained.

"Anyone we know?" Bill asked, from Harry's other side.

Charlie kept his voice down, but the words thudded into a moment of silence. "Draco Malfoy."

"That evil ponce!" Ron's face flushed with anger, and his hands fisted around his knife and fork. "I hope you told him where to take his business."

"Why would I do that?" Charlie crossed his arms over his chest.

"Because he's a Death Eater. And he would be in Azkaban where he belongs if it wasn't for—"

"Don't go there, Ron," Harry warned, right hand slipping under the table in a move that Charlie recognised.

"Come off it, Harry. You know what he's done. What he did to this family."

A sideways look at their mum showed that she was paying attention, and not in the trembling way that would have made Charlie shut down the conversation. Instead, he indulged his own curiosity and asked, "And what did he do that was so unforgiveable?"

"What did he do? He poisoned me, didn't he? And he let that fucking werewolf into Hogwarts, getting Bill scarred for life. And what about—"

"You hardly look dead," Bill cut across Ron's rant, his voice laced with disappointment. "As for what happened to me, I've already told Draco that I don't believe it was his fault. That's like holding Harry responsible for everyone who got hurt when he tried to stop Voldemort."

"That's not the same, and you know it." Ron started to rise from his seat, only to be pushed back down by George.

"You going to hold everyone responsible for what they did during the war? Or just the people you don't like?" Percy leant forward; the effort it took was clear from the way his hands trembled.

"C'mon, Perce, it's not as if you killed anyone." Ron flung his hand out in a gesture of dismissal, sending a small mound of carrots and peas flying across the table. "And Malfoy's been a nasty git since he was a kid. Always thinking he's better than everyone else just because his family has money. Banging on and on about how poor we are and how we can't afford anything worth having."

"Ronald Bilius Weasley! Your father and I brought you up better than that."

Everyone at the table jumped. Eyes wide, jaws about dropping open in shock, their heads turned in tandem to stare at their mum.

"Being poor's nothing to be ashamed of," Molly continued.

Ron mumbled, "I wasn't—"

"Of course you were. If you hadn't been ashamed of us, nothing Draco Malfoy or anyone else said would have bothered you in the least." Eyes brighter than Charlie had seen in months, Molly surveyed the table. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to enjoy the rest of my meal in peace."

Completely unable to prevent himself from grinning like a madman, Charlie muttered, "Yes, Mum," along with everyone else, and resumed eating.

There'd be time enough after dinner for him, Bill, and Harry to drag Ron out into the back garden. They'd thank him first, and then knock some sense into him. Or maybe t'other way around

o0O0o

The door opened at precisely five minutes after eleven the next morning. Keeping his tone flat and his eyes on his book, Charlie said, "You're late."

"And yet you waited."

Slapping his book down on the counter, Charlie looked up. "Doesn't mean I have to work on you though, does it?"

Only the flaring of Malfoy's nostrils showed that Charlie's comment had hit home. "I'll be on my way, then. No sense in both of us wasting our time." Back straight as a wand, he spun on one heel and strode to the door.

"Doesn't mean that I won't do it either," Charlie said, just as Malfoy's hand touched the knob.

Malfoy stood still for a moment. Then, half-turning towards Charlie, he snapped, "Make up your mind. I haven't got all day."

"Why don't you take off your cloak, sit down, and tell me what kind of tattoo you want and why? Then I'll make up my mind." Charlie stepped around the counter and over to the seating area he'd set up in front of the window. As he walked past Malfoy, the cloak was dropped on his arm.

"Thank you," Malfoy said. "Don't mind if I do." And then the entitled bastard sauntered over to the settee and arranged himself there. All long legs, elegant hands, and smirk.

Retorts flashed through Charlie's mind, but eventually he decided not to fling the cloak back at the bastard, but to hang it on a coat peg. Badly, so that the hem dragged on the floor.

Settling himself in the armchair, Charlie gave Malfoy a slow once-over. He was blatant about it, letting his eyes roam up and down the other man's body. And a nice body it was, especially clad in black velvet robes that split at the waist and framed his hips, groin, and legs. The narrow, charcoal-grey trousers were the latest in wizarding style, low-slung and set off by a black embroidered waistband that matched the edging on the robes.

If Charlie had been the least bit insecure, he might have felt underdressed in his jeans and plain black cotton shirt. But he wasn't. In fact, the way Malfoy adamantly didn't return his appraisal told Charlie how good he looked.

All of which had nothing to do with why Malfoy was here. Charlie mentally shook himself and reached out with his magic. Two hot spots. The one on Malfoy's shoulder was a regular tattoo — not the weakest Charlie had ever felt, but not quite adequate either. The other, though. While it didn't feel _exactly_ like the remnants of Snape's Dark Mark, that was the only tattoo Charlie had ever known that felt even remotely similar. He slid forward in his chair and seized Malfoy's left wrist.

"What the hell, Weasley?" After one unsuccessful attempt to wrench his arm out of Charlie's grip, Malfoy started trying to pry Charlie's much thicker fingers off his wrist.

"Stop that," Charlie ordered and slapped Malfoy's hand away. "I need to see what you've got on your arm."

"It's none of your business," Malfoy hissed. "I don't want a tattoo anywhere near there."

"Every tattoo on your body is my business. I have to make sure that the magic is compatible before I get started. Otherwise... well, the results vary, but none of them are good." Charlie stroked Malfoy's shoulder with his free hand. "This one shouldn't be any problem. It's got so little magic that I'd be surprised if it moves at all."

Malfoy peered down at his shoulder and then lifted it in a liquid shrug. "It hasn't moved for years. How did you know?"

"Trick of the trade." Charlie looked directly into Malfoy's eyes. "Will you show it to me, or are you going to walk out that door and find someone who doesn't care what happens to his tattoo or to you? It's your choice."

"I—" Malfoy contemplated Charlie's hand on his forearm for a few seconds; then he took a deep breath and raised his head abruptly. "Unhand me."

Charlie let go, never taking his eyes off the black cloth that covered Malfoy's forearm. One jet button at a time, the sleeve was unfastened all the way to the elbow. Next, white buttons were slipped through soft cotton, and Malfoy folded back shirt and robe.

Another pause while Malfoy held his right hand cupped protectively over his bare skin, and then he thrust his arm towards Charlie.

Unable to help himself, Charlie grasped Malfoy's arm, drawing it even closer, forcing him to slide to the edge of his seat.

A family claiming tattoo. In green and silver and black, snakes and fleur-de-lis surrounded a quartered shield. Vines twined around the shield and then spread out across Malfoy's forearm, seeming to pierce into Malfoy's flesh instead of being merely skin-deep.

"I thought even the purest of pureblood families stopped doing these somewhere back in the Dark Ages. According to Grandfather Prewett, too many families lost their heirs when the ritual judged them unfit." Charlie stroked the side of Malfoy's arm, carefully avoiding the tattoo. An odd feeling wound its way through Charlie, partly awe and partly something Charlie wouldn't have named even if he could.

Malfoy reached out and attempted to cover the tattoo again.

"Don't hide it," Charlie said, appalled by the very idea. "This is proof that you survived one of the hardest tests in our world. You should be proud of it. Shove it into the faces of the arseholes who think you're hiding the Dark Mark under those stupidly long sleeves."

"My father researched it and then performed the ritual." Malfoy frowned as he stared down at his forearm. "He was desperate to prevent Voldemort from giving me the Dark Mark. He said I'd be better off dead."

There was nothing Charlie could say to that. Not when Malfoy's parents had recently died of the same wasting sickness that had killed or was killing every marked Death Eater who'd survived the Battle of Hogwarts. Voldemort's final legacy, they were calling it; some with more satisfaction than others.

The abrupt withdrawal of Malfoy's arm jerked Charlie out of his thoughts.

"If you can stop drooling for just a moment—" Malfoy smirked "—perhaps we can discuss my new tattoo."

"Right." Charlie ran a hand through his hair and gave his dragon's tooth a quick rub. "That tattoo on your arm's going to have an effect. You won't be able to have any more ink on that arm. And that includes the shoulder."

"Good thing I don't want it on my arm then, isn't it?" Malfoy withdrew a carefully folded piece of parchment and spread it out on the coffee table. Three angular lines had been drawn on the paper. Star points marked each break in the lines. "I want this," he said, "on my chest."

"Just the outline?"

"That's what I was thinking. It's to cover some scars. I'm tired of seeing them in the mirror."

Images blossomed behind Charlie's eyes as he traced and retraced the map of the Draco constellation with a scarred fingertip. He eyed Malfoy, judged the breadth of his chest, and estimated the likely location of his nipples. "What about a combination?"

"Of what?"

"This inked in darker lines, with the stars blooming out from it. And behind—" Charlie drew an imaginary picture "—the outline of a dragon. A Hebridean Black, perhaps, or a Hungarian Horntail. Although the colours of an Antipodean Opaleye would look spectacular on your skin."

"Just the outline?"

"In slightly faded inks, so the constellation map takes the foreground and directs the eyes away from your scars."

One hand spread over his chest, Malfoy bent forward and caressed the parchment. "You can do this in one sitting?"

"This is a magical tattoo, not a Muggle one. Of course I can do it in one sitting." Charlie tapped a finger on Draco's arm. "If my magic is acceptable to your family tattoo."

"I can't imagine my tattoo would reject anyone I find suitable."

"Maybe not, but I want to do some research first. I'm not going into this blind."

"Tomorrow then, at the same time," Malfoy said, rising to his feet in a graceful movement that had Charlie wishing his jeans weren't quite so tight. "And don't—"

"Don't schedule any other clients, I know," Charlie said, with a smile.

o0O0o

"You're letting Draco come back tomorrow?" Harry sounded incredulous. "I thought your days off were sacrosanct."

"They were... _are_," Charlie corrected himself. Resisting the urge to jiggle his right leg, he rested his left ankle on his right knee. When that didn't work, he changed position, planting both feet on the floor, digging his sock-clad toes into the thick rug.

"So why are you here?" Bill handed Charlie and Harry each a bottle of beer, then dropped onto the sofa next to Harry. "What's going on?"

Charlie scraped at the label on his beer bottle with a thumbnail. "Before we do this, I need your word that you won't talk about it, not unless he decides to make it public."

Bill and Harry exchanged a glance, the kind of intimate sharing that made jealousy curl in Charlie's stomach, the kind that he wanted to be able to share with someone.

"I'll leave you to it, then," Harry said. He squeezed Bill's hand before getting to his feet. "Draco and I have come a long way since school, but I don't think he's ready for me to know all of his secrets."

"I didn't mean to—"

"Don't worry about it," Harry reassured Charlie. "I've got lots to do. We're getting Victoire's room ready. She's coming home next weekend."

"Which means," Bill added with a smile, "that the pool is yours."

"And we're expecting you to spend the lot on a gift for Victoire," Harry finished.

Without waiting for a response, he dropped a kiss on Bill's forehead. Their hands pulled apart as Harry moved towards the door, a trailing separation that had Charlie adamantly not thinking about why their touches and smiles bothered him.

Just before he reached the door, Harry turned and pinned Charlie with a glare. "Don't make me regret sending him to you. Draco had a harder time than most people in the war, and he's nowhere near as unfeeling as Ron wants to believe."

Charlie started to say that he wouldn't, but the hard look in Harry's eyes made him reconsider. Shame coursed through him as he remember how he'd backed off at the dinner table, almost encouraging Ron so he could satisfy his own curiosity. Instead, he mumbled, "I'm doing my best."

"Try harder," Harry suggested. "Draco doesn't need to be reminded of the worst mistake of his life every time he looks in the mirror. He deserves something good for a change."

The snick of the door closing behind Harry was accompanied by the familiar weight of privacy wards rising into place.

"Don't even ask." Bill held up his hand to forestall Charlie's questions. After a brief pause, he said, "Why don't you tell me what brought you here instead?"

Picking a thin strip off the label, Charlie twisted the shred of paper between his fingers and fought the sudden onslaught of doubt. This had to be the right thing, talking to Bill, because he didn't know anyone else who'd even know where to start looking. Before he could change his mind, Charlie blurted out, "He's got a family claiming tattoo."

Bill whistled. "Bloody hell, I thought those things were obsolete. And with damn good reason."

"His other option was the Dark Mark. Apparently, his father told him he'd be better off dead."

They were both silent for a moment, then Bill blinked hard and got up, heading for the sideboard. As he handed Charlie a glass of whisky, he said, "I'm assuming that you're looking for information about the tattoos."

"Yeah, I just..." Charlie pushed himself out of the armchair and walked over to the bookshelves that lined one wall of the sitting room. Books with tooled leather bindings and gold script sat next to ones bound with flimsy cardboard. As delaying tactics went, this one was poor and over-used, but he found himself unable to ask the question that had haunted him ever since he'd felt the pull of that damn tattoo. Lifting his tumbler, he swallowed some whisky. The burn felt good, but brought no inspiration.

"You want to know—" Bill's voice came from just behind Charlie, sending a shiver of foreboding down his spine "—what will happen when the tattoo tests your magic."

A few murmured words and an old book — its cracked leather binding so discoloured that Charlie couldn't hazard a guess at its original colour — flew off a shelf and onto the reading stand.

Charlie watched. He watched Bill saunter over. He watched the fang earring swing as Bill cast a spell and the pages slowly flipped by themselves. He watched Bill's unbound hair fall forward as he hunched over the book and read. Then, when Bill made a humming noise and straightened up, Charlie tossed back his whisky.

"This is the best resource I've ever found on the old family marks, and it doesn't have a lot. Apparently, the reaction is different for each family, because each family has a slightly different ritual." Bill turned, took a step forward and then another, until he was close enough to clasp Charlie's arm. "But that's not the question you need to ask."

Charlie shook his head, tipped up his glass and let the last few drops slide onto his tongue.

"It _probably_ won't obliterate your magic," Bill said, "nor should it force any kind of bond between the two of you. As for the rest, my best advice is to see if the damn thing will let you touch it. If it doesn't reject you, you're probably safe to do the ink."

Probably was as good as a promise when it came to Bill and curses. Relief washed through Charlie. "That's... yeah, it's good."

"One other thing." Bill tapped Charlie on the shoulder, making him look up. "Some of these old tattoos, well, the families put their own ideas into the ritual. Just because it doesn't hurt you, there's no guarantee, all right?"

"All right." Charlie scrubbed a hand across his chin, then barked a harsh laugh. "Most of the time I couldn't care less about being a pureblood, but I have a feeling it's going to matter to that tat."

Bill's hug was unexpected, but Charlie sank gratefully into the reassurance.

o0O0o

The next morning Malfoy strode into the studio as if he owned the place. Ten minutes late, but Charlie wasn't counting. Not really.

"I presume your research went well, since I didn't receive an owl from you last night." Malfoy shrugged off his cloak and tossed it over the back of an armchair. The movement disarranged his hair, making him look almost approachable.

"As well as it could when there's so little information available about family tats," Charlie replied. "Did you check the Malfoy archives?"

"Father's notes weren't particularly helpful. There's one scroll in the archives that deals with the ritual, and it's somewhat charred. According to the records, the other scrolls were destroyed when peasants attempted to burn down the Manor in 1381." Malfoy wrinkled his nose as if he'd stepped in something disgusting. "Needless to say, that was the last time anyone got that close to the Manor without an invitation."

"I'm sure." Charlie choked back a snicker.

"Of course you are." Malfoy smirked, unholy glee lighting up his eyes. "After all, that was the same year Weasley Castle was razed to the ground."

"A castle, huh?" Charlie grinned. "And your poor ancestors stuck with a paltry old manor."

Putting his nose in the air, Malfoy said in his loftiest accent, "Paltry it may be, but at least Malfoy Manor is still standing. Peasants be damned."

Charlie snickered. It wasn't that funny but the expression on Malfoy's face was priceless. He leant back against the counter and watched as Malfoy discarded his jacket on the same chair as his cloak.

"Shall we do this?" Malfoy's stance radiated challenge.

"Just need to lock up first." Charlie reached behind the counter, retrieved his wand, and cast _Obfirmo_ at the door. He grunted with satisfaction, when the lock clicked into place and he felt the wards adjust to Closed status.

"You think someone would come in on your day off?"

"Doesn't seem to matter to you, does it?" Charlie snorted.

"Not particularly, no." Malfoy prowled around Charlie, fingers not quite touching the skin bared by his vest. "They're gorgeous, especially the dragon on your arm and shoulder."

"Not the one on my back?"

"Can't see enough of it to judge, can I?" Malfoy said from behind him. He plucked at Charlie's vest. "Take this off and I'll let you know."

And fuck if Charlie wasn't tempted to do it. But, before Malfoy could say something else, Charlie shook his head and said "My workroom's out back. C'mon."

"What about your tattoo?"

"Later, all right?"

"Fine," Malfoy huffed. "Later."

He was relieved to see that Malfoy paid more attention to the workroom than he had to the front shop, going so far as to run a finger across the counter to verify the cleanliness. Of course, that meant disinfecting the damn thing all over again, but it was a small price to pay.

The workroom was big enough for Charlie, his client, and one other person without crowding. Counters ran along two sides with cupboards above and below. One held a sink and Charlie's equipment. Protective wards shimmered over the equipment, keeping out the dust and other contaminants. His work counter gleamed empty. The third wall held nothing but a mural of dragons and mountains.

"You painted this?" It wasn't really a question, even though Malfoy phrased it that way.

"I spend a lot of time in here. I wanted..." Charlie hesitated, not sure how much of himself he was willing to reveal.

After a brief pause, Malfoy finished the sentence for him. "To bring a bit of your old home into your new home."

Surprised by the insight into something that only Bill and Harry had been able to understand, Charlie could only nod.

"It's brilliant," Malfoy said, reaching up to trace the wing of a Ridgeback. "I'm glad you're willing to do this for me. I knew you'd understand dragons, but this is beyond what I'd imagined."

"Thank you." The compliment made Charlie feel awkward, as if the balance had shifted somehow and he'd been Portkeyed onto foreign terrain. Needing to bring this back to business, he said, "If you sit down and roll up your sleeve, we can run the test first. Make sure I can do this for you."

"You can do it." Malfoy's voice was full of conviction.

"You've decided, have you? Just like that."

"Just like that," Malfoy echoed.

"Guess we'll find out if your family tat agrees with you." When Malfoy didn't respond, Charlie continued, "You'll need to be bare from the waist up. Unless you want the tattoo to go below your waist, in which case the trousers need to come off as well. There are hangers on the wall by the door."

Malfoy swung around, one eyebrow arched in inquiry, but Charlie ignored it and continued, "There are thin cotton robes on a peg next to the hangers, if you feel the need. Or you can grab a sheet from the shelf to throw over your lap, if you prefer. The design sketches are on the table next to the chair. And if you think you'll need to go to the loo, I recommend you do it now."

And with that Charlie turned his back on Malfoy, which was as much privacy as the man was going to get, and started to prepare. He cast sterilising charms on his work counter. He whipped up a pot of shaving cream and laid it on a tray with a razor, a flannel, and two bowls. After filling the bowls with water, he cast a Warming charm on them. Then he put together a set of ink palettes.

When the rustling stopped, Charlie returned his attention to Malfoy. Pale skin gleamed against the black leather of the chair. A white sheet covered him from just below his hipbones to his knees. Everything else was wiry muscle and pale blond hair.

"This one," Malfoy said, handing Charlie the sketch of the Opaleye. "You were right about the colours. I much prefer it to the black of the Ridgeback. And unfortunately, this—" he tapped the sketch of the Welsh Green "—well, it's the right colour, but Malfoys never wear anything _common_."

"Git."

"So I've been told. More than once." Malfoy twisted his head so he could see Charlie, and held out the other two sketches. "Destroy these?"

"Always," Charlie assured him and Banished the other two pages. "No one will ever have a tattoo like yours. Not from me, anyway. I make no guarantees about anyone copying it off your skin."

"I'd like to see them try."

So would I, Charlie thought, because it would create one hell of a spell-light show. He pulled his mind away from that particular tangent, and began to take visual measurements of Malfoy's chest and to examine the white lines that angled across the otherwise perfect skin. "These are the scars you want to cover?"

Malfoy's nod was short and sharp.

"Are they sensitive or numb?"

"Mostly numb. There was some nerve damage, especially with the deeper cuts." Voice diminishing to a whisper, he said, "They're in the mirror every day. Even Harry agrees it's time."

"Well, if _Harry_ thinks they need to go, who are we to argue." Charlie's lips quirked into a crooked smile.

"Exactly," Malfoy's smile was more tentative. "It's why he sent me to you. He said you were the only one he'd trust."

The pause was deep and heavy, but Charlie remained silent. Malfoy clearly needed to talk, and Charlie discovered that he wanted to listen. He also wanted to know what the hell Harry was up to, but that was a conversation for another day.

"They're..." Malfoy hesitated, his hand coming up, fingers spreading in a futile attempt to cover the damage. He took a deep breath and then looked into Charlie's eyes. "They're curse scars. Harry cast Sectumsempra on me in sixth year when I tried to... to hex him. What a fucking horrible year that was."

_Sectumsempra_? Charlie was stunned. Harry had used a bloody second year spell on Voldemort, but had cast a dark curse on a schoolmate? Remembering the way Harry had said _the worst mistake of his life_, Charlie had to wonder where it stood in Harry's own list of mistakes.

As he shook his head, Charlie caught sight of a familiar mask slipping down over Malfoy's face. Wanting to prevent that and to offer some kind of comfort, he said, "Then it's past time we all started putting it behind us. So, let's get started, yeah?"

"Yeah."

Moving his wheeled stool into place between Malfoy's legs, Charlie sat down. He slid his hand under Malfoy's left forearm. The burns, red hair, and freckles that dotted Charlie's hands and arms had never seemed as vivid as when they were placed into contrast with Malfoy's skin. Malfoy shifted, curling in towards Charlie, watching intensely.

Charlie focussed on the family claiming tattoo. Not ink, but colours drawn from Malfoy's blood and bone. Shutting his eyes, he allowed his own magic to rise and flow through his body. He stroked the soft skin with his work-roughened, scarred fingertips.

Pinpricks of power teased him, tested him. A lick and then another. Abrasive, like a cat's tongue, the power curved around his magic, his soul. He was touched everywhere. Caressed, fondled, pressed, and twisted.

Drawn downwards, needing to get closer, Charlie bent further and further until his forehead rested on Malfoy's shoulder. He could barely breathe, could feel Malfoy's chest heaving. Warmth spread from their connection. He stopped stroking, started squeezing. Slowly at first, then faster and faster. They spiralled tighter and tighter, higher and higher.

A bell rang, a _ting_ of sound that vibrated through them, dissolving into the thunder of blood running through their veins.

And the spell broke.

"Merlin," Malfoy breathed. "I could get used to that."

"Mmmm," Charlie agreed, straightening up with a languorous stretch that gave him time to collect his thoughts. "I believe," he finally said, not having come up with anything better, "that we're safe to proceed with your tattoo."

Smirking, Malfoy drawled, "You think?"

"I think." Charlie grinned.

"And you're a Weasley, too. Miracles never cease."

"Not around you, at least," Charlie replied. Then, before he could change his mind, he held out his hand. "Name's Charlie."

Both of Malfoy's eyebrows rose, disappearing beneath his long fringe, but he shook Charlie's hand. "Draco."

Charlie wanted to say something smart and a bit sarky, something that would make an impression, but once again he found himself unable to think of a damn thing. Instead he nodded and settled for the acceptably bland, "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise."

The silence that settled over them was the kind that held a promise of _something_, the kind that usually had Charlie spouting excuses and walking out the door. A glance at Draco showed that he looked just as uncomfortable.

"So," Charlie said, exhaling loudly, "shall we?" He gestured towards the sketch.

Relief and something Charlie couldn't identify passed through Draco's eyes as he nodded. "God, yes."

"Let's get you shaved then." Charlie retrieved his wand and Summoned the tray. "You going to be able to stay still? Or do you need me to cast a Body Bind?"

"No Body Bind," Draco snapped, struggling to sit up in the chair without dislodging the sheet. "No one casts that on me again, not if I have anything to say about it."

"Fine. As long as you don't move."

Draco had very little hair on his chest and only a faint, blond trail from his navel, but Charlie shaved him from collarbone to pelvis, focussing on each stroke of the razor, not the softness of the skin. The leather that covered the padded chair arms was dented by the time Charlie was finished, but Draco didn't move. He even timed his inhales and exhales to the moments when Charlie lifted the razor to dip it in water and cleanse it of shaving cream and hair.

A shudder ran through Draco's body when Charlie dipped the soft flannel in the clean bowl of water and washed his chest. The skin looked undamaged, but Charlie cast a gentle Healing charm just in case.

"That was so much nicer than a shaving charm."

"Yeah, well, shaving charms tend to miss spots. Not a good idea when you're getting a tattoo."

Running a hand across his own chest, Draco hummed with pleasure. "I could get used to this."

"No touching." Charlie batted his hand away, cast Cleansing and Disinfecting charms just in case, and pressed the design against Draco's skin. A quick wave of his wand started the sketch transferring. "And keep still until this transfer's done, or you'll end up with a crooked dragon."

"Merlin forefend. How would I live down the shame?"

Charlie snorted. "And no making me laugh when I'm doing the tattoo."

When Draco made a face at him, Charlie shrugged and said, "It's your funeral. Perhaps literally."

"I thought wizarding tattoos didn't use needles like Muggle tattoos?"

"I'll be using my wand near some rather sensitive areas."

The amusement faded from Draco's eyes. "Good thing I trust you then, isn't it?"

"No worries, yeah? I haven't lost a client yet."

Batting his eyelashes and smirking, Draco murmured, "You do know how to reassure a man, don't you?"

"Arse," Charlie commented without rancour. Then, seeing that the transfer had finished and the sketch had dissolved, he summoned his ink palettes.

As he prepared his wand for the inking, Draco muttered, "I know. Don't move or you won't be responsible for the consequences."

"Pretty much, yeah." Charlie smiled. "Although, bodies being what they are, if you need to move, just say Parson. Quietly, mind you. You don't want to startle me when I've got a wand aimed at you."

"Parson? What kind of safe word is that?"

"It's not a word you're going to say accidentally, is it?"

"Hardly."

"Now, lie back and think of Hogwarts." Charlie grinned as he adjusted the chair until Draco's chest was at the right angle for working. When everything was arranged to his satisfaction, he pointed his wand at the dark grey ink, triggered the needle spell, and got to work.

The initial pinch when the spell inserted the first spike of ink into Draco's skin caused Draco to inhale sharply and sent shivers down Charlie's spine. After making sure his hand was steady, Charlie started again.

It was almost as if Charlie was the one getting the tattoo. Every sting, every scratch, every buzz vibrated through Charlie's body. During every pause to send the wiping spell over the inked skin, goosebumps prickled Charlie's back and scalp.

They took a break after Charlie finished the constellation and the outline of the dragon backdrop. Standing up and moving around, Charlie smiled with satisfaction when his neck and spine cracked.

Draco, on the other hand, stayed in the chair, stretching lazily. His eyes were half-closed, the lids heavy. "I thought it would hurt," he commented, "but it's almost arousing."

"It depends," was all Charlie would allow himself to say. He couldn't begin to explain how different this experience was. He'd talked to a lot of tattoo artists over the years, both Muggle and Wizarding, and no one had ever described anything like this.

Time passed in a haze of sensation. Charlie loaded his needle spell with colour after colour and made pass after pass, filling in the dragon, when Draco moaned.

"Mmm... scratches."

"Too much?" Charlie stopped, holding his wand just above the tattoo.

"No," Draco breathed. "It's... good."

Draco shifted, and Charlie could feel Draco's half-hard cock pressing into his side. Just the endorphins, he reminded himself, and, clinging to his promise never to take advantage of a client, said, "One more pass, and we're done."

"Oh." Draco sounded disappointed.

Leaning forward, Charlie swiped at a bead of sweat that was rolling down Draco's neck. "You can always get another."

"Perhaps I could." Draco settled back down, licking his lips as iridescent ink flew from the palette to the tip of Charlie's wand.

When the final drops of ink sank into Draco's skin, Charlie was convinced that even the tips of his hair were tingling. Almost in a daze, he cast the final set of spells, the ones that cleaned the tattooed area, sped up the healing, and eased the pain.

Pushing back his wheeled stool, Charlie started to stand up, but stopped when Draco touched his arm.

He looked as bewildered as Charlie felt. "I want to—" Draco started to say, then shook his head and pressed his lips together.

"Why don't you get dressed," Charlie suggested, his voice rough, feeling almost bereft when Draco pulled his hand back. "I'll wait for you out front."

As Charlie walked out the room, he focussed on sending the ink palettes skimming over to the sink and on not looking back at Draco. Leaning against the front counter, he released a long, shuddering breath. He was flexing his fingers, trying to ease the odd prickling sensation, when he heard footsteps approach.

Without speaking, Draco eased his jacket and then wrapped himself in his cloak. He stood for a moment, looking at Charlie. Whatever uncertainty he felt had been hidden away beneath a façade of confidence. The difference this time, the thing that kept Charlie from breaking the silence, was that he _knew_ it was a façade.

Charlie handed him a potion bottle and a pamphlet of after-care instructions.

Stuffing them in a pocket, Draco asked, "How long?"

"A week to heal," Charlie said. "Then, if you want me to activate the tattoo, come back and see me."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Some people find their tats..." Charlie shrugged. "Hell if I know. Too much for them, maybe? But at least half of the people who get tats don't come back for the magic."

"I've been tempered by the best. There isn't a lot in this world that I can't handle." Draco's lips curved into a smile. A step forward and he reached up, patted Charlie's cheek.

The kiss was soft. A mere brush of lips that Charlie could still feel after the door thudded shut and Draco was gone.

o0O0o

"And you just let him leave?" Harry grinned, levitating their tea things onto the coffee table and then sitting next to Bill on one of the Burrow's plush sofas. "You are so fucked."

"In a good way, I hope." Charlie grinned back from where he was sprawled on a nest of cushions in front of the hearth.

With a snort of laughter, Bill asked, "Is there any other way?"

"Not one I want to experience." Harry gave Bill a pointed look, sliding a hand up Bill's thigh and slowly swiping his tongue over his lips.

"Harry! Have you no shame?" Ron stood at the bottom of the stairs, his eyes alight with laughter. "This is our parents' house."

"I don't believe it. Ickle Ronniekins is as prissy as Percy." Charlie flung a hand over his brow. "It's an absolute disgrace. Two of them in the family. How will we ever live it down?"

"Arse," Ron said, aiming a kick at Charlie's legs as he passed. He poured himself a big mug of tea, adding sugar and milk, before settling into an armchair and propping his feet on the table. "Where'd mum and dad go?"

"Over to the Jorkins," Bill said. "Apparently, Bert and the three kids caught whatever's going around and Primmie's at her wit's end."

"Pregnant again, too," Harry added. "I'm starting to think there's something in the water around here. Good thing I'm a wizard."

"Who told you wizards can't get pregnant?"

Bill, Ron, and Charlie burst out laughing at Harry's look of horror.

When they quieted down, Harry muttered, "Bastards."

"Yeah, yeah." Ron waved him off. "So, what's the good news?"

"What makes you think there's good news?" Harry asked.

Ron snagged a couple of biscuits from the plate on the table. "Jaffa cakes, that's what. Only time they come out is when we're mourning or celebrating. This—" he gestured with the biscuits "—is not mourning."

Bill and Harry didn't say anything, which Charlie appreciated. However, he'd been watching Ron closely enough to see the hurt flash through his eyes before he covered it up by eating another biscuit. Hoping Ron had learned something on Sunday night, he decided to give his little brother another chance to prove he could let bygones be bygones.

"I finished Draco's tattoo."

Ron sat up like a shot. "And?"

"And he kissed me. And I liked it."

Ron's breath exploded from him in a rush. "Fuck."

"Not yet," Charlie said, wistfulness seeping into his voice despite his efforts to prevent it. "Maybe not at all."

Harry snorted.

"Just make sure he knows what he's getting into with this family," Bill advised.

Glancing from one to the other, Ron shook his head. "Oh no! No way."

"What?" Charlie asked.

"You can't make me call him Draco."

"I bet I could get him to call you Ron."

"Merlin's balls." Ron looked around and finally threw a biscuit at Charlie, who caught it one-handed and took a bite. "You don't play fair. Any of you."

o0O0o

The rule was one week and three days. Any earlier and the tattoo wasn't healed enough. Any later and the lingering magic from the work was too dissipated for the tattoo to be activated. Charlie told himself that he wasn't keeping track, but he hadn't a clue how many times he'd cast _Hodiernus_ over the past three days just to see the date glowing in the air.

He'd kept himself busy. Before, in between, and after clients, to stop himself from thinking too much, he'd worked on a new mural on the wall opposite the shop windows. He'd started off by hiding the painting from view behind a heavy canvas curtain, but changed his mind after a passer-by came in to get a better look and ended up getting a sleeve tattoo.

At the end of the last day, he flipped the sign to Closed, but didn't lock the front door. Instead, he stood with his back to the window and the door — adamantly _not_ watching and waiting — and started to paint. This dragon was white and bore no resemblance to any dragon found in nature. Serpentine tail wrapped protectively around a nest, the creature reared up on its hind legs. Its outstretched wings had bony spikes at regular intervals and the grey-blue eyes flashed with warning. No fire was visible, but smoke seeped from its flared nostrils.

"Some people might take that as a compliment."

Spinning around, Charlie didn't even try to hide his smile. "Some people might intend it as one."

Draco was covered up as usual, but this time the hood was down and his cloak wasn't held tightly closed. The heavy wool swung with each movement, no matter how small. His hair had been cropped close to his head, drawing attention to his eyes and high cheekbones, to his mouth.

"Activating the tattoo..." Draco trailed off, something like uncertainty flashing through his eyes.

"Should only take a minute," Charlie said, moving closer.

Draco swirled the cloak off his shoulders and draped it over the chair, giving Charlie a perfect view of the way Draco's tight black denims showed off his arse. Charlie distracted himself by summoning his wand.

"It might be too late."

"Nah, you've still got time to activate the tat. I can feel it."

"That... that's not what I meant." Draco scowled and raked a hand through his hair, dishevelling it. "I might not have been completely forthcoming before. About my family claiming tattoo."

"No kidding." Crossing his arms over his chest, his wand gripped in one hand, Charlie wished that the wall behind him weren't too wet with paint to lean against.

"I didn't think it would matter, you see." Draco paced back and forth.

Fairly sure he knew what was coming, Charlie stood and watched and waited.

Draco stopped in front of Charlie. "I didn't quite tell you everything."

"Again, no kidding."

"Let me finish, all right," Draco said, gripping his left forearm with his right hand, directly over the tattoo. The vertical line between his eyebrows deepened.

Charlie nodded, some of his tension easing.

"There was nothing more in the parchment, that much was true. I didn't think it would matter, you see. You're a Weasley and my father—" Draco hugged himself. "You would think that by now I'd know better than to believe anything that bastard told me."

Charlie couldn't imagine not being able to trust his father. His heart simply wouldn't go there. Then again, he was sure Draco's past held entire realms of familial nightmare and betrayal that were beyond even his rather vivid imagination. But that didn't mean he couldn't see their impact.

He grasped Draco's forearm, placing his hand over Draco's, and said, "I knew, all right. I felt it the minute I touched it. Before I sent you away and before I talked to Bill."

An odd expression crossed Draco's face, leaving spots of red on his cheekbones. "There's no requirement," he finally said. "No forced bond, nothing like that. Just an acceptance, a possibility."

"I know."

"And only if you activate the tattoo, use your magic on me again..."

"Yes."

And then Draco was crowding into him. This kiss was hard and deep, full of fear and trembling. Charlie wrapped his arms around Draco and pulled him even closer. When the kiss ended, they drew apart, just enough to look at each other without letting go.

Draco ran a hand down the side of Charlie's face. "All those freckles," he said, his voice caught between wonder and something less pleasant.

"Red hair, too," Charlie responded, turning his head to capture Draco's fingers in his mouth.

"I could get used to that." Draco smirked. "For the right incentive, I'd even call the Weasel by his name."

Releasing Draco's fingers with a pop, Charlie murmured, "You would, would you?"

"Mmmhmmm."

"I love a challenge." Charlie grinned, tugged the jumper up to Draco's armpits, and pressed a possessive hand to his chest. The inked skin pulsed with pent-up magic. Bending his head, he brushed his lips against Draco's. "Do you trust me?"

Squirming, Draco pulled the jumper over his head and then swayed forward again. The impact of their bodies jarred the tattoo. Charlie buried his face in Draco's cropped hair as the magic unfurled through them like wings. The colours rippled out of the opalescent design as Draco's dragon uncoiled to meet the red dragon that slithered around Charlie's arm and shoulder.

Voice shaky, Draco whispered, "I trust you."

Fingers spanning stars from nipple to nipple, his other hand cupping Draco's arse, Charlie twisted his hips. His clothed cock slid against Draco's, sparking a flash of heat that seemed to reverberate between their tattoos.

Draco tugged Charlie's t-shirt out of his jeans, slipping his hands beneath it, and spreading his fingers over Charlie's back. The dragon tattoo undulated under the pressure.

As they kissed, as their bodies touched, as they moved against each other, Charlie and his dragon flew.

~fin~


End file.
